I Don't Blame Him
by FinnickOdair-Will-Live-Forever
Summary: I branded him a loser. An outcast. Unworthy of life. Yet he still came back to me. He wanted our friendship. I guess I didn't realized that I needed it until it was too late. Oneshot.


**This is my first shot at Glarvel, so sorry if it's bad. :) This is just a oneshot and I don't own The Hunger Games. :) It's in Glimmer's POV, and it follows the book not the movie. :)**

I was thirteen years old when I first met Marvel. He was a head taller than the rest of us, he was scrawny and he had three older brothers that gave him a new bruise every day. My friends and I had barely even looked at him at the time, branding him a loser and an outcast. I didn't take my training seriously, I knew from my early teenage years that my looks would get me through the Games. I thought I'd be the new Finnick Odair- I was wrong, of course. Anyway; like I said, I didn't take my training seriously. Unlike District Two, we started training at thirteen instead of eight and Marvel was always the first to arrive and the last to leave ever since his first day. Let's be honest, he couldn't exactly rely on his looks like I did. He wasn't bad looking…But it was obvious that he didn't give a damn. Why should he anyway? He wasn't one to try and make friends. If I could go back in time, I'd try to be more like him. I'd train hard, just like he always did. I only cared about popularity and having a boyfriend, whereas he focused on spears and making fires. Maybe that's why he lasted longer than me. My death was _so _embarrassing. I spent four years training for the Hunger Games, only to be stung to death by Tracker Jackers. Fair play to Katniss, that girl was smart. I guess I only realised that when I was being shoved to the ground by Cato as made a hasty getaway with Clove. It was always going to be Clove for Cato, just like it was always going to be Marvel for me. I didn't know why. I didn't even realise that I loved him until I was hallucinating his death over and over again in my head whilst I died painfully.

My first conversation with Marvel wasn't exactly a happy one.

"Do you even _eat_?" I had asked, approaching him at the spear section. My friends and boyfriend of the week had laughed smugly at my comment. I was most popular girl in my age group, and I had even been more popular than some of the fourteen year olds. That had been a huge achievement for me.

"H-huh?" He had stuttered, causing my friends to mutter things like 'oh, come on' and 'what a loser'.

"I believe I asked you if you eat." I had repeated, raising one perfectly shaped eyebrow. Oh yes, at thirteen I was then envy of all the other girls at my school and training academy. How could I not be, with my Victor daddy and my Capitol singer mother? But I was a bitch, and without my subtle version of the Capitol clothing and more pocket money than I knew what to do with, I'd have been nothing.

"O-of course!" He had stuttered.

"Then why are you so…Scrawny?" I had asked, crinkling my nose in disgust.

"Um…Genetics?" He had guessed.

"What a freak." I had rolled my eyes at him and walked away. Damn. I was an idiot, right? I judged people and underachieved, and trust me when I say that came back to haunt me in the 74th Hunger Games. From then on, nobody talked to Marvel because I had deemed him unworthy of life. In fact, I didn't speak to him again until I was fifteen.

"You seem to be having a little trouble." Marvel had pointed out. I was desperately trying to figure out the right stance to throw a spear. In order to be selected for volunteering when I was older, I had to pass three different weapons tests. I was useless with a sword, and terrible with knives. That left me with the bow and arrows, spears and maces. I could use a bow and arrow reasonably well, and I could swing a mace with a little power. Spears, however, gave me a bit of trouble.

"What's it to you?" I had snapped, before throwing my spear and watching it bounce off of the target.

"Maybe it would help if you threw it the right way round. You know, with the pointy end first?" He had suggested, before retrieving my spear and showing me the correct stance. Despite being taught by him for an hour, I had only made the smallest amount of improvement.

"I'm never going to pass this stupid spear test!" I had yelled, kicking at the rack of spears. Did I mention that I was highly unintelligent back then? Well, I was.

"I'll help you. Every morning, an hour before everyone else arrives. I'll help you until you're one of the best." He had grinned.

"Why are you being so nice to me?" I asked him suspiciously.

"What's wrong with being nice?" He had responded.

"Nobody speaks to you because of. If our positions were switched, I'd be pretty pissed off." I had explained.

"Well, I guess I'm just not like you." And that was how my friendship with Marvel began. Nobody knew about our before-hour meetings, but nobody had too. It was something I liked to keep to myself- a secret. He was my only real friend, and the only person that didn't hang out with me because of my popularity or money. Not only did he have the ability to make me laugh uncontrollably, but my spear skills were gradually improving and I was awarded with the honour of volunteering for the 74th annual Hunger Games. Unfortunately, so was he.

I was such a shithead in the week leading up to the Games. Blinded by the Capitol lights and bright fashions, I started lusting over the boy from District Two. I could tell by one glance that he had something going on with his District partner, but I didn't care. He was hot, therefore I wanted him. Marvel stuck by my side like a loyal puppy, only leaving me to train or to talk to Clove and stop her from attacking me every time I flirted with Cato. I was stupid. I didn't realize what I had. I wanted more, when it wasn't what I needed. There's a big difference, you know. Between what you want and what you need. I wanted Cato. He needed Clove. I needed Marvel. Marvel wanted me to realize that. But Marvel never needed me the way I needed him. Oh no. He kept me grounded; he was the only one with enough guts to remind me that I wasn't the only person on the whole damn planet. I was a friend to him. Just a friend. He had others back home, and I was still a bitch to him around my other 'friends'. Yet he still came back to me. It was never a case of need for him, though. He _wanted _our friendship. I _needed _it. I may have already said that, but I will never be able to put into words how much Marvel meant to me, even if I didn't realize it at the time.

Where was I? Oh yeah. I was a shithead. I thought I could get any guy (I was wrong), and I pinned after Cato. I figured that if I flipped my hair around a bit and winked at him every so often, he come crawling after me with a dozen roses in his hand. Ha. I was never the one for him. He was never the one for _me_. Looking back at it, I'm glad I didn't get in between whatever Cato and Clove had. I'd known him a week. She'd known him his whole life. I was a bitch to the only guy who truly cared about me. She was a bitch to everyone _except _the guy that cared about her. I was stupid. She was clever enough _not _get stung to death by glorified bees.

I didn't know that waiting for Katniss Everdeen to come down from that tree would be one of the last things I did. That night, I tried to get as close to Cato as I could without receiving a knife in the back from Clove. I was only about a metre away from him, and Marvel lay next to me on my left. We talked that night. About our memories, our inside jokes, our private training sessions and about people back home. We spoke about everything except the fact that at least one of us would be dying very soon. I wish we'd spoken for longer.

When I was awoken during the Capitol anthem by the sharp stings of the Tracker Jackers, I knew in my heart that I was done for. I scrambled to my feet anyway, but then I felt hands (they belonged to Cato) shoving me back down to the floor. I looked up just in time to see Cato hightailing it out of there, pulling a woozy Clove along behind him. Marvel was only a few paces behind them. He left me, and I honestly don't blame him. I could feel every single stinger that pierced my body, and I won't go into detail regarding the hallucinations. You'd need therapy. Trust me; if I'd lived I would have too. But I'll tell you this- Marvel died a hundred times in front of me. I guess that was when I realised that I didn't _need _a blonde haired, blue eyed, District Two beast. I didn't even _want _him. I needed and wanted _Marvel_. My goofy, scrawny, loser friend Marvel who left me to die.

I don't blame him.


End file.
